


Madarame's List

by foxjar



Series: Pure White Just Like Sin [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Rule of Rose Fusion, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Madarame Ichiryusai, Drama, M/M, Sexual Assault, Sexual Coercion, Top Kitagawa Yusuke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27828463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxjar/pseuds/foxjar
Summary: The worst days are when Madarame lies back on the bed, beckoning to Yusuke with hands that seem to destroy so much. How can he call himself an artist when that's all he ever seems to do? Everything that Madarame touches turns to desolation. Even Yusuke.Especially Yusuke.The days when Madarame refuses to let his mind slip away are what haunt Yusuke when he sleeps. The gaunt legs wrapping around his hips; the saggy skin hanging from Madarame's bones; the curtain of silver hair upon the pillow once Madarame pulls off his hair tie."Be gentle," Madarame croons, his blunt nails raking down Yusuke's chest. His breath is sour, a billow of foul air daring Yusuke to turn away, to deny him.Gentle,Yusuke thinks.As you've never been with me.100 words of grooming.
Relationships: Kitagawa Yusuke & Kurusu Akira, Kitagawa Yusuke/Madarame Ichiryusai
Series: Pure White Just Like Sin [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705099
Kudos: 21
Collections: 100 Words Of...





	Madarame's List

### Yusuke: The Lonely Prince

The floor is always dirty when Madarame summons him, littered with dust and specks of dirt. The wood is warped in places, and sometimes Yusuke hopes he'll fall right through it. If only he could fall forever.

When Madarame calls him to his bedroom, he always ends up on his knees. The windows could be flung open, letting in all the light the sun has to offer, and Madarame's room would still be his eternal cage.

There's nothing more to clean, but Madarame still keeps the music playing over the intercom. Yusuke has memorized the tune of each song, and yet he cannot name a single one. He's never bothered to look into them, and he doesn't think he could ever ask Madarame about them. Over time, he's thought of his own identifiers for each song.

The slow song, shorter than the others. Everyone at the orphanage seems to detest this song in particular. This is the music that played when Madarame first violated him beyond groping, beckoning Yusuke up to his room, and then he was lying on the bed, his mentor hovering over him, breath sour and perverted hands relentless.

The sad song, low and mournful. This filled the orphanage with its hollow sound the first time Madarame pushed him against the wall, tore his pants down, and forced himself inside. At one point they had shifted so close to the window that Yusuke could touch it, the glass ice against his fingertips. It was one of the most freeing sensations he has ever felt, to be able to slip away in such a small way.

Then there's the silly song, the fast-paced one that Madarame only plays when he's brimming with joy. It was playing the first time Madarame handcuffed Yusuke to his bed and slipped a blindfold over his eyes. Madarame had called it "exploration." All artists need to be open-minded about such things, he had said.

So many songs, so much pain. Untitled outside of the trauma Yusuke attaches to each.

The music is intended as a declaration for everyone residing in the orphanage to clean, to scrub and sweep and wash as if their lives depend on it. But for Yusuke, it is a summons to the very place he abhors.

Madarame sits on his bed, the mattress squeaking, once he finally stops pacing the room. Yusuke can only see his socks, the fabric having gone off-white with use, and the hem of his hakama, its pleats finely pressed. He sighs, complaining of age and pains and obscurity to the only person in the orphanage who will listen to him.

"I have given up so much," Madarame laments, "to take care of you all."

 _Then why not leave?_ Yusuke wonders. _Why not pursue your legacy in art as you have always dreamt?_

Other than Kawakami, the maid, Madarame is the only adult at the orphanage. He teaches them rudimentary math, science, and other basic subjects, always bemoaning about how he'd rather be making art. It's where he belongs, of course. That faraway, untouchable world.

Maybe what he takes from Yusuke is what he considers payment for his services. Maybe he'd leave if Yusuke fought back harder — or would he inflict his horrors on someone else? Perhaps Ann, his favorite of them all?

Madarame pats Yusuke's head, his fingers twisting through his hair, sucking the youth, the life, the innocence from him. And then Yusuke is standing in front of him, the pretense that he was summoned to clean shattered for the thousandth time, and Madarame wraps his arms around his hips. He nuzzles the front of Yusuke's pants, his hands easing his belt off, and Yusuke has to look away. Out toward the window, where the glow of mid-afternoon is as remarkable as ever.

Pity sinks into Yusuke's skin, poisoning his veins and thieving all motion from him. It hurts; everything hurts. Madarame's lips find his stomach once he's pulled up Yusuke's shirt, his tongue dipping into his belly-button in that repulsive way of his.

And yet Yusuke can still see the sun even as Madarame pulls his pants down, tutting at his lack of arousal. Always such a disappointment. His gnarled hands caress him, attempting to coax him to hardness. Sometimes Yusuke can get erect eventually, his body betraying him, but other times he can't. Sometimes not even his body can ignore the horrors of reality.

Madarame's mouth on him is warm, his tongue sloppy and wet. Yusuke gasps, not at the pleasure but at the sheer strangeness; Madarame takes it as a good sign. He sucks him into his mouth, swallowing around him, one hand reaching behind him to squeeze him.

The sun cannot save Yusuke today. The silly song hums in the background, covering up any untoward sound that might escape the room.

Madarame is in an especially good mood today. But why?

The worst days are when Madarame lies back on the bed, beckoning to Yusuke with hands that seem to destroy so much. How can he call himself an artist when that's all he ever seems to do? Everything that Madarame touches turns to desolation. Even Yusuke.

Especially Yusuke.

The days when Madarame refuses to let his mind slip away are what haunt Yusuke when he sleeps. The gaunt legs wrapping around his hips; the saggy skin hanging from Madarame's bones; the curtain of silver hair upon the pillow once Madarame pulls off his hair tie.

"Be gentle," Madarame croons, his blunt nails raking down Yusuke's chest. His breath is sour, a billow of foul air daring Yusuke to turn away, to deny him.

 _Gentle,_ Yusuke thinks. _As you've never been with me._

He hesitates for too long; Madarame's hand creeps up his neck, twisting his hair around his finger.

"Ann is a beauty, is she not?" The implied threat lies thick between them, hitting far too close to home for Yusuke's comfort. "I can see why you're so determined to paint her."

If Yusuke doesn't comply, Madarame will turn to the others. Yusuke can't allow that to happen, not when he has the power to stop it. When all he has to do is surrender every part of himself.

He reaches down between their bodies, attempting to stroke himself to erection — to succeed where Madarame had failed — but he can't. Ann's bright blue eyes, her gentle smile — all flash before Yusuke's eyes, but Madarame's heels dig into his hips, forcing him onward. Ever forward. He chokes back a sob as he tries to ease his half-hard cock inside his mentor, and again Madarame takes his sound of distress to be one of pleasure. Madarame pinches his nipples, twisting them without caring how his sharp nails might scratch Yusuke, making his body jolt with disgust. He pulls Yusuke closer to him so that he can kiss his neck, his lips sucking at sensitive skin — and finally, he wills Yusuke's body into cooperation. Yusuke's hips rock into his, and he feels the agonizing spark of pleasure, and then he can't stop. Just as Madarame desires, his body moves with a fluidity that can only be brought out by a mix of lust and unwillingness.

Madarame groans, the sounds swallowed by the silly song, on repeat for hours and hours until Yusuke is sure it'll be the last thing he ever hears. It can't stop; it won't stop.

When Yusuke moves too fast or fucks Madarame too hard, he's punished with a painful twist of his nipple or a harsh slap on his ass to remind him who he's with. To be gentle. To revere the ancient body sprawled beneath him.

These are the worst days because Madarame refuses to let his mind wander too far. When Madarame is inside him — with Yusuke riding him or pushed up against the wall or forced onto his hands and knees — he can almost float away. Yusuke can see the sun through the window, and his heart can slip away.

But not like this. Not with Madarame grabbing his chin and forcing him to look, to see, to feel.

Sometimes Yusuke can't stay hard. Madarame will turn the music up louder and keep Yusuke locked in his room until evening slips into the darkest night. All while everyone else cleans.

But the nightmare has to end sometime; Madarame can't keep him all night. He could try to brush off the suspicions of the other residents, but what about Kawakami? She's the only one who has ties to the outside world. She could leave.

She could tell someone.

For once, the communal sleeping in the dormitory is beneficial. Yusuke can't be trapped here for too long; Madarame is merely borrowing him.

The thought makes Yusuke tremble, his sweaty palms slipping on the sheets. He doesn't belong to Madarame, but he doesn't belong to himself, either. He is a tool to give pleasure and experience pain.

The forced slowness of his hips rocking into Madarame holds a pleasurable edge to it. It's as if he's being teased, that warmth wrapping around him, pulling him in — only to demand he move with agonizing slowness. If he could fuck Madarame faster, this could be over and he could be back in his bunk, curled up and thinking of vibrant colors and eyes that see so little.

Part of him wants to be like everyone else. To see nothing of the world's horrors. But if it weren't Yusuke here in Madarame's bed...

Madarame kisses him, his lips dry and scratchy. No matter how many times Yusuke is forced to mesh their bodies together, it will always feel unnatural to him. Maybe that's what Madarame craves: to feel wanted, like he belongs with someone wholly.

But that person isn't Yusuke. It can't be. He's still young enough, naivete biting at his heels, to think everyone deserves love. But he can't give that to his mentor.

Yusuke cannot love anything or anyone; it's only the concept that he adores, chasing it with his hands, his withered paintbrushes, his decades-old paint.

That familiar shiver creeps its way down his spine, coursing through every inch of his body. When he tries to pull away, to spill onto the bed, Madarame is digging his heels into his hips, demanding he remains where he is.

It would be so easy to pull away. Madarame is much older, nearing his eighties, and Yusuke is strong enough to defy him. But where would he go? The orphanage is bordered by miles and miles of looming trees on all sides. What would he do, and how could he live knowing he was sealing the fate of Madarame's next victim?

It's easier to stay compliant, Yusuke figures.

Madarame moans into his mouth, a raspy sound worming its way into Yusuke's lungs. He can't help the way his hips rock with finality, the waves of pleasure rolling through him, his own gasp meeting Madarame's.

Then there's just Madarame's chest pressed against his, the music still blaring. Whatever magical veil that lust had pulled over Yusuke's eyes is gone now. They lie together on the bed for a while, trying to catch their breath, before Madarame finally creeps out of bed to turn the music off.

And then it's time for his nightly decree.

"Tonight's cleaning has concluded, and it is time for bed. I'm sure you've all worked very hard to help clean up," Madarame says over the intercom, his voice betraying nothing of the atrocities that just occurred in his room. He stands nude, maybe half a meter away from the bed, his skin flabby and his hair sticking from his head like tufts of straw.

 _I owe this man everything,_ Yusuke thinks. _He gave me a home. Would I have come to adore art as much as I do without his guidance?_

At last comes Madarame's list, calling everyone to bed in order of his favorites.

"Ann, Kasumi, Mishima, Makoto, Justine, Shinya, Futaba, Yusuke, Caroline. Goodnight, everyone. Sleep well, and may tomorrow be full of wonders for you all."

Yusuke is always there near the end, but he's never the very last unless he's done something to upset Madarame. Like the times he's been so sick he could barely get out of bed and thus wasn't able to service Madarame in his room. He knows better than to let it upset him, and yet it always works as intended, planting seeds of doubt inside him.

He could have tried harder to please Madarame. Instead of merely following his guidance, Yusuke could have initiated intimacy this time. Or he could have surprised Madarame with something new, some bold caress.

And yet he never does, and he's always bordering the end of Madarame's accursed list.

Yusuke stays in bed until Madarame falls asleep beside him, his wheezy snores filling the room. He pulls his clothes back on, and before he leaves, he runs his hands across the hundreds of books that lie on the shelves along the walls. Dusty, forgotten. They're never missed, and borrowing them without permission is one tiny thing Yusuke can do to retaliate. Today, he grabs a book on astronomy, its spine ancient and cracking.

Maybe he'll learn something new about the stars. Something to help lead him away.

When Yusuke's at the door, his hand ready to twist the knob, he turns back. He looks at Madarame, so frail-looking all alone in bed, and a cocktail of emotions course through him. The gnaw of anger, the guilt of sadness. The neverending cycle of pity. So Yusuke makes his way back over to the bed, pulling up the covers and tucking Madarame in, even pressing a soft kiss to his sweaty forehead.

It's a gentleness — a strange sort of selflessness — that Yusuke can't remember ever being offered, but it's something he strives to give, even now. Then he's out the door, his heart thudding in his chest, wrestling with his ribs.

The world outside Madarame's room lies still. Everyone must have crept up to the dormitory to sleep, maybe even slipping past the headmaster's room as they headed upstairs. Could anyone have heard what was going on? Would they do anything if they knew?

Yusuke's stomach rumbles. It feels like it's been so long since he ate breakfast earlier this morning. Nothing has changed since then, not really — nothing other than the encroaching dread, winding around his neck, suffocating him.

He wonders if he could manage to sneak into the kitchen for a snack without waking Kawakami. But is he worthy of sustenance? Is he worthy of anything?

But then someone is closing in on him, pouring from the darkness, their steps careful, voice soft as they hush the gentle meowing of the cat trotting behind them.

It's Akira, the glare of moonlight a shimmer across his glasses. For a few moments, they simply stare at each other. Yusuke's hands start to twitch, so he clenches them at his sides to still them.

"Did you hear anything?" he finally whispers.

"What?" Akira sounds surprised, but then he lowers his voice. "No, I just —"

He reaches into the bag slung over his shoulder and hands Yusuke a book: his sketchbook, his pencil. Sitting outside with Akira and Morgana seems like it was a lifetime ago; Yusuke is no longer the same man he was then. Another shard of him has chipped away.

"You dropped them earlier," Akira explains. "When the music started playing. And then you headed off to —"

Somehow he knows not to finish his sentence. Nobody here seems to be a big fan of the headmaster — Yusuke is the only one who tries to defend him when the others bemoan about cleaning or classes or punishment — but they all afford him some level of respect.

And yet there's suspicion in Akira's voice, something deeper. Or is it just because he's whispering that Yusuke thinks he knows more than he should? He shudders, thinking of how he must smell of sweat, of the fear that immobilizes him. How much could Akira possibly know?

Yusuke kneels down to pat Morgana, who butts his head against his hand, his cold, wet nose sniffing his fingers.

"I hid in the closet by the backdoor," Akira explains. "You know how Makoto gets when she finds people sneaking around after lights-out. She scolds them and herds them right over to the headmaster's office."

Yusuke stiffens. That closet is right next to Madarame's room. Why would Akira be so specific? Unless he knows. How could he have hidden there and not heard all that transpired?

Morgana yawns when Yusuke pets him again, his breath stale and fishy. If only he could return to a state of such innocence. If only.

Should Yusuke question Akira here? Demand he keeps the secrets that no one should ever have to bear? He's still wracking his mind for a way to interrogate Akira without revealing too much about himself when Akira reaches into his bag again.

"For you," Akira says, handing Yusuke a small bundle. "Goodnight."

Akira heads upstairs, the steps creaking eerily beneath his feet, and then Yusuke is alone. His hands shake as he unwraps his gift, peeling back the paper towel to reveal what's inside. He can smell the freshness of the food, although having lost its warmth by now: the handful of shortbread rounds, the lumpy scone, and half a bar of chocolate carefully folded over with its foil wrapper.

Sometimes Madarame gives chocolate away in class when someone impresses him; Makoto is often the recipient of such treats, or Ann, simply because she is his favorite. But Madarame despises Akira just like he detests Ryuji, to the point of not bothering to include them on his snobbish list, so Akira must have stolen it. Stolen the shortbread and scone too, and something about that sacrifice makes Yusuke feel microscopic in such a massive world. There are so many interwoven parts, so many gears always twisting, and yet here Yusuke is, collapsed on the floor and clutching half a bar of chocolate to his chest, all because someone cares.

Someone cares.

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't expecting to get inspired to work on this series, but here we are.
> 
> I listened to [Love Suicide](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jig_BSvn8wE) a ton as I wrote and edited this.
> 
> The list itself is based on [the one Hoffman uses in Rule of Rose](https://ruleofrose.fandom.com/wiki/Hoffman#Trivia). The food Akira gives Yusuke is based on health items in the game.


End file.
